


Lost without each other

by jenny_wren



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Fluff, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-09
Updated: 2014-12-09
Packaged: 2018-02-28 18:09:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,340
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2742083
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jenny_wren/pseuds/jenny_wren
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Les Amis welcome Enjolras (& guest) home</p>
            </blockquote>





	Lost without each other

They have a banner and balloons. It’s a big banner, taking Bossuet, Bahorel and Feuilly to hold it up, Bahorel is trying to get them to set up a chant, while Feuilly is he’s about to fall asleep on his feet, it’s more like the banner pole is holding him up than the other way around. Jehan is in charge of the balloons and has just crouched down to solemnly tie one string to an awed little boy’s wrist.

All in all it looks a bit like one of Enjolras’ rallies is about to kick off. Courfeyrac beams with pride at his co-conspirators. Combeferre rolls his eyes at him,

“I told you this was over the top.”

Courfeyrac grins. His friend is being so silly. Enjolras is coming back from a three month internship in London – there’s no such thing as over the top.

“Yes there is,” Combeferre is using his freaky mind-reading skills.

Courfeyrac scowls at him and hands Joly the trumpet.

“Oh my god,” says Combeferre.

Joly rubs at his nose nervously, “It’s been a long time since I was in the marching band.”

“It’s like falling off a bicycle,” Courfeyrac consoles him, “I’m sure you’ll be fine.”

“I really don’t think that’s how the saying goes.” Combeferre is such a wet blanket. Courfeyrac would argue with him but he’s too busy bouncing on his toes trying to spot a head of blond curls. The train pulled in at least five minutes ago and Enjolras should be here by now and it’s been three months and if Courfeyrac doesn’t see him right this minute he’s going to explode.

“He’s probably not even on the train,” Combeferre continues to soggy blanket, “he’s probably stuck in jail for murdering the roommate.”

“You shouldn’t joke about that,” Jehan scolds weakly. Courfeyrac’s totally on to him though and can tell he’s trying not to smile.

“It’s hysterical,” said Bahorel. “I’m amazed it took so long for Enjolras to find somebody who wouldn’t put up with his shit.”

“Oh come on,” Courfeyrac defends, “it’s at least fifty percent the roommate’s fault. For god’s sake he threw all Enjolras’ stuff out the window.”

“And you’re not at all tempted by the thought of throwing all Enjolras’ stuff out the window?”

“Um,” says Courfeyrac.

“Don’t worry,” says Joly in his physician voice, “it’s a perfectly natural reaction to spending too much time with Enjolras. Healthy even.”

“Yeah,” Bossuet agrees. “I mean we’d never actually do it, because he’d go off like a bottle rocket, but admit it, it’s an awfully tempting idea.”

Even Combeferre nods in agreement. Courfeyrac makes with the big shocked eyes. Combeferre sighs, “I am only human.”

Bahorel laughs out loud. “Can you imagine his face. The roommate must have brass balls. I’d love to have met him. Maybe he’ll come over to visit.”

“Yeah right,” Bossuet shakes his head, “he’s probably throwing a party to celebrate the French ponce clearing off.”

“I dunno, I’d rather meet the roommate than the hottest man ever,” Bahorel clasps his hands together and gushes the words like an over the top romantic heroine.

“Enj is not that bad,” says Combeferre.

“Actually he wasn’t bad at all,” Courfeyrac glances at Jehan who nods in agreement. The two of them were lucky enough to be voted ‘the romance specialists’ which means they’ve been the unfortunate recipients of their group’s gushing, ranting, sighing and weeping over significant others for years. In comparison Enjolras has barely said a word, especially given this his first serious affair. 

“Does anybody else find it weird we’ve heard less about his hot summer fling than his arguments with the roommate?” 

Because every conversation any of them have had with Enjolras has been filled with iniquities of the roommate. Of course the murder thing is a joke, but they have a running bet on when it was going to end in a fist to somebody’s face. Assuming Enjolras made it out the country without exchanging blows, Jehan is going to make a lot of money. And Jehan only picked no bloodshed or bruises because he felt obliged to live up to his optimistic reputation.

“Not really,” says Combeferre thoughtfully, “I’m fairly sure Enjolras enjoys arguments more than sex.”

“Then he’s doing at least one of them wrong.”

“It’s definitely not the arguing part,” says Bossuet, “nobody can argue like Enjolras.”

Jehan giggles, “The roommate apparently can.”

“Yeah,” says Bahorel, “didn’t they even get the cops called on them? Twice?”

Combeferre sighs and gazes despairingly to the heavens.

“Three times,” Courfeyrac waves three fingers for emphasis.

“Three times?”

“Three times. Did you not hear about the last time? At the weekend? I didn’t quite get the full story because Enjolras was too mad to stick to one language and my English isn’t bad but I can’t keep things straight when he keeps switching it up, and I’m pretty sure there was German and maybe Latin in their somewhere. I think there was a problem with the deposit.”

“That can’t be right, Enjolras doesn’t care about money, not like that.”

“That’s why I don’t think I have full story. He was so furious he was shaking with it. I, it was sort of scary actually.”

Combeferre hummed in agreement. “I’m glad he’s coming back. He was talking about staying longer a while back. But he and the roommate broke three glasses, one mirror and the kitchen table which decided the issue.”

“Ugh,” Jehan shivers. “Let’s talk about the hottest man ever instead.”

They fall silent because other than – _his hair, and his eyes, and his hands, oh god his hands_ – Enjolras hasn’t had much intelligible to say about his fling. And while it’s nice to know said fling has the standard number of body parts that’s not much to hang a conversation on.

Courfeyrac decides to take a valiant stab at it anyway. “He can’t be the hottest man ever because the hottest man ever is without doubt Enjolras.”

“Really Courfeyrac,” says Combeferre very dry, “I had no idea you felt that way.”

“Oh come on. Could any man, person, be hotter than Enjolras?”

“Not without actually being on fire,” agrees Jehan. “He’s so hot he’s not actually attractive.”

“That makes no sense,” says Bahorel.

Courfeyrac sighs, “That’s because you’re as straight as a very straight thing, so you think it’s perfectly natural not to be attracted to Enjolras. For anybody even slightly inclined that way it’s extremely confusing.” 

“Poor Courfeyrac decided he had to be straight,” Jehan is gleeful and everybody else laughs because Courfeyrac is admittedly and obviously bi and doesn’t quite get how anyone can not be. If you have the opportunity for either snuggles or sexy shenanigans, why would you be picky about a thing like gender? Sometimes Courfeyrac does not understand people at all. 

He pouts for effect, “Hey, those were an extremely traumatic few months of high school.” Combeferre gives him a quick half hug, because it’s funny now but it wasn’t really then. Jehan kicks his foot lightly, part apology, part sympathy. Courfeyrac elbows him in return.

“Where is Enjolras anyway?” he borrows Combeferre’s shoulder for balance as he levers himself up onto his toes. “If he missed the train to fit in one last argument, I will thump him.”

“There he is,” cries Bahorel using all his sneaky extra height to full advantage. “Enjolras! Over here!” The banner wavers jiggle the banner up and down, Joly lets lose a trumpet blast and Jehan does his weird yodeling trick. Everyone turns to stare at them and Combeferre’s sigh comes right from his boots.

Courfeyrac is so delighted he could cartwheel for joy, but, oh, there’s Enjolras, storming towards them like an avenging fury, he must have missed them too. Courfeyrac can’t resist running towards him. Enjolras stops and braces himself, which is enough of an invitation for Courfeyrac to jump right into his arms.

“Hello Courfeyrac,” says Enjolras, slightly muffled as his face is squished against Courfeyrac’s chest.

Courfeyrac is having none of that calmly dispassionate bullshit, and shrieks delightedly, “Hi-i-i-i-ii,” as he locks his legs around Enjolras’ waist and does his best to squish him even harder.

“It’s good to see you too,” says Enjolras.

Courfeyrac can feel the others piling in from behind, but he has the height advantage, so he’s the first to see the grumpy troll. The grumpy troll collects his own bags in one hand, has a short fight with Enjolras’ abandoned wheelie case with the other hand, before giving up and picking it up with a grunt of effort. He stomps towards them, stopping just behind their joyous huddle, and drops all the bags with a loud bang.

“I am not your porter.”

“Mmmph,” says Enjolras struggling to fight free from overflowing affection.

“Who are you?” asks Courfeyrac. Which is a totally valid question, but makes the grumpy troll look even grumpier and slouch into a sulky hunch of shoulders.

“You didn’t tell them anything about me at all, did you?” he growls.

“Mrrr _mmphf_ ,” says Enjolras more emphatically. He manages to get one arm free and grabs onto the grumpy troll’s hoodie and hauls.

The rest of their friends step back to study this strange new person and Courfeyrac reluctantly climbs down from his perch to join them.

Enjolras keeps hauling until he can wrap his arm around the grumpy troll’s shoulders. There’s a definite suggestion of hanging on for grim death.

“I talk about you all the time,” he protests. “Courfeyrac, _you know_ I talk about him all the time.”

Huh. “Huh?” This cannot possibly be _the hottest man ever_ because _grumpy troll_ , and Enjolras only talks about one other person, but it really, seriously, can’t be –

Enjolras huffs at him and turns more firmly towards the stranger. “Honest, I talk about you all the time, R.”

– It is. It’s the roommate.

Combeferre groans like he’s dying and his fingers clutch for patience. “Only you Enjolras.”

“What?” Enjolras has the nerve to look puzzled, like it’s perfectly normal to bring the roommate he hates for a visit like a wayward puppy.

Jehan, who is lovely and sweet and rolls with the punches like a boss, steps into the breach, “We didn’t know you were coming to visit R. It’s great to meet you.” 

He reaches out to hug the newcomer. Enjolras looks vaguely alarmed. The grumpy troll, R, twitches a couple of times before his mouth pulls into what is presumably supposed to be a smile but only succeeds in reminding Courfeyrac that baring your teeth is considered an act of aggression.

“It’s great to meet you too,” R says, and for a second Courfeyrac wonders if R’s ability to speak French is just really dreadful because it sounds like he meant to say, _I hate you, I hate this, I hate Enjolras, I hate everybody and their dog. Would anybody mind if I stab you all to death._

Then any other thought flies out of his head when R goes on to say,

“Enjolras has told me so much about you. You must be Bahorel.”

Courfeyrac stares. Everyone stares.

“What the hell did Enjolras _say?_ ” Bossuet demands, eyes wide with disbelief. Courfeyrac can understand his confusion. He supposes Jehan could be less like Bahorel but he doesn’t really see _how_.

R’s lips quirk into something almost like a real smile and he pats Jehan on the shoulder, “You’re the scary one, right.”

“Oh,” Jehan flushes red as a tomato and there is the tiniest smug little curl to his lips.

“Hey,” growls Bahorel looming over him, “you don’t think I’m scary?” 

Bahorel is, well normally Courfeyrac would say he’s twice their size, but R’s only a bit of a thing, and Bahorel is easily three of him. Bahorel glowers down at him in all his scarred, broken-nosed glory, and Courfeyrac is _not_ scared of Bahorel because the big guy would never hurt any of them, but just at this moment Bahorel is hide-under-the-duvet intimidating, and Courfeyrac maybe squeaks a bit.

R grins, “Of course not. You’re clearly a complete softie.” And he goes up on his tiptoes so he can fling his arms around Bahorel’s neck.

“Oh.” Bahorel’s eyes go big and soft. Courfeyrac has the awful temptation to yell Timber, because the guy is gone, totally, totally gone. Bahorel straightens up, R keeps hanging on and ends up perched on Bahorel’s hip. Bahorel very carefully pats R’s dark curls with one big hand.

“So,” Courfeyrac says loudly, Bahorel is such a smitten kitten it’s getting embarrassing, “how’d you end up coming back with Enjolras anyway?” There has to be a good story behind this.

R whispers something quickly to Bahorel, then grins sunnily at the rest of them.

“Well I’ve always wanted to visit France. And Enjolras offered to show me around, how could I turn down the opportunity?”

Courfeyrac scowls, he wanted a better story than Enjolras being trapped by his own politeness.

R hasn’t finished though, “It’s going to be so great. I can’t wait to see Versailles.”

“Versailles?” Courfeyrac can feel his face wrinkling up in puzzlement. Enjolras loves every part of their country dearly, but Courfeyrac can’t imagine him trumpeting Versailles, of all places, as one of the attractions.

“Oh yes. It’s so amazing. Enjolras told me all about it, at length,” he smirks at Enjolras.

Okay that sounds believable. Enjolras has a lot to say about how Versailles is a symbol of everything that is wrong with France.

“There’s the Loire Chateaux of course. I’m a photographer and I’m planning to do a book. They go mad for books on luxury French living in the UK. A coffee table book, glossy pages, high-quality pictures, full of very exclusive, historic French chic. Sounds great, am I right?”

It sounds like the sort of book that would qualify as the exception to the no-burning-books-ever rule.

“Maybe a few model shots of the owners, well the chatelaines anyway. Enjolras promised he could get me a private visit to all of the important houses.”

That’s – probably true, if horrifying. Enjolras’ family certainly have the connections for a private tour of the Loire Valley, but Enjolras would have to beg for favors from people he dislikes and has actively avoided for the past five years.

“Black magic or blackmail,” says Combeferre decisively. Courfeyrac racks his brain for what Enjolras could have got up to in England with that much blackmail potential and frightens himself so badly he decides black magic is the better option.

“But it’s mostly Versailles. Louis XIV was such a strong personality. He made such an impact on French history. Really the only person who had a greater impact was Napoleon.” R’s face is shining, full of awe. 

Courfeyrac maybe whimpers, just a bit. Because for sheer vitriol Enjolras’ response to Louis XIV is only overshadowed by Napoleon.

Combeferre mutters, “Now I’m really not sure how they managed to survive living in the same house.” 

“And Versailles is his perfect symbol.” The paean to the majesty of Versailles that follows is disconcerting in itself and doubly so because R clearly knows what he’s talking about. It’s surprising that Bahorel doesn’t drop him.

“Are we sure this Enjolras,” Joly whispers frantically under a rhapsody to the stunningly incredible windows. “Body snatchers could be a thing.”

Enjolras looks as if he wants to bury his head in his hands and never come up for air. Finally he snaps,

“R, shut the fuck up.”

“What?” R blinks rapidly, practically glowing with innocence, and oh, the little shit. He was deliberately winding them up for the fun of it. If he’s being doing that to Enjolras all along, it’s amazing their house is still standing.

“Stop inflicting your twisted sense of humor on my friends,” Enjolras tries to smack him, but Bahorel shifts them both out of the way.

“Oh come on,” says R, “Versailles is the perfect symbol for a king unable to live in his own damn capital city.”

Courfeyrac grins because that is so, so true. He relaxes then, along with the rest of them, and that’s a mistake, because R goes on to say,

“And they all deserve it, because I bet they’re just like you and refuse to admit that Edmund Burke was utterly right.”

Courfeyrac yelps, jumps back out of the blast zone on instinct, and crashes in Bossuet who’s trying to do the same and they both get tangled up with Joly. Combeferre and Jehan both take a step forward because they’re insane and feel strongly enough about monarchy, and the importance of not having one, to stand by Enjolras when he explodes.

Except Enjolras doesn’t explode, he gets his debating face on. Oh my God.

“This is what you’ve been arguing about?” Courfeyrac can’t help saying no matter the danger of drawing attention to himself, “Constitutional monarchy? How is your house still standing? Wait, it isn’t, is it? That’s why you’re here. You and Enjolras blew up your house and now you’ve got nowhere else to live.”

R goes off into a peal of laughter. 

“Shut up,” Enjolras mutters sulkily.

Bahorel pulls a sour expression. “I feel I should drop you on principal.”

“Aw don’t be like that. I’m a solid British citizen, and all solid British citizens are constitutional monarchists at heart, because otherwise our Head of State would have been Tony Blair and that shit’s just too depressing to contemplate.”

“You kind of have a point,” admits Bahorel as he sets him down gently with another pat to unruly black curls.

Enjolras makes a strangled sound and clutches at the heavens for patience. R slips an arm around his waist.

“There, there, honey. You just be thankful to good old Louis XIV, or you too would have a nice stable constitutional monarchy, and how boring would that be.”

Oh, ouch.

Enjolras’ smile is a snarl, “Better than smug complacency, certainly.”

Double ouch.

Wait a moment, “Honey?” asks Courfeyrac.

“I know, I know,” R sighs, “infantile terms of endearment are demeaning to their recipients.” He looks put upon for all of half a second and then adds deliberately, “Pookie,” and bobs onto his toes so he can press a kiss to Enjolras’ forehead.

Courfeyrac knows it’s not possible but he would swear he can hear Enjolras’ teeth grinding.

“No, no, no,” he protests. “How did I miss this? What happened to the hottest guy ever?”

“Courfeyrac,” growls Bahorel. Jehan kicks his ankle. Combeferre elbows him and hisses, “Have some tact.” And oh wait,

“You’re the hottest guy ever?” He hopes he doesn’t sound as incredulous as he feels.

R just laughs, “Uh no, fairly sure that’s Enjolras.”

“That’s what I said,” says Courfeyrac, vindicated.

Enjolras has flushed up like he’s on fire, “I may possibly have referred to you in those terms before I was aware of your name. Which was objectifying you and very wrong of me.”

“You can objectify me all you like, baby.” R’s smile is back to that fixed unconvincing twist of lips.

Enjolras stiffens, “You know I l-like you because you’re an amazing person, not just because you’re gorgeous. You’re incredible.”

“Sure thing.” R laughs harshly.

This is just painful. Courfeyrac asks the first question that pops into his head, “I thought R was your room mate?”

“Yes, he was,” says Enjolras patiently.

“But you spent at least a week talking about the hottest guy ever before you met him?”

“Yes. And after I met him, we moved in together. That’s what you do when you meet someone you like.”

“Not five minutes after being introduced.”

“It was two days, and why not?”

Courfeyrac just knows if he continues that line of questioning he’ll get a lecture on social constructs, regardless of the fact two days acquaintance is way too soon to move in together.

“Wow,” says Joly, “no wonder you fought like cat and dog.”

“So what did you fight about at the weekend?” Because Courfeyrac is still curious.

Enjolras huffs, “This one was refusing to come back to Paris with me.”

“Enjolras,” says Combeferre with the deliberate calm that means he’s actually exasperated, “you can’t expect someone to pick up their whole life and move when you’ve only know them for three months.”

“I know that. That’s why I was going to move to London. But R got mad about that – ”

“You have plans, liebling,” R tightens his arm around Enjolras’ waist. “You can’t just move countries.”

“You were much louder about it back then.”

“You don’t hear me otherwise.”

Courfeyrac grins, “Is that the time the neighbors called the cops?”

“The second time,” confirms Enjolras, “we are not talking about the first time.” He claps hand over R’s mouth before he can be contradicted.

“So I wanted to ask, I get the glasses, and even the mirror, but how did you break the kitchen table?”

“It wasn’t designed to take two people’s weight.” Enjolras has turned an ugly purple color. R fights free of the restraining hand and manages to say,

“Weirdly the making up seems to cause more destruction than the actual fight. The first time – ”

And Enjolras gets his hand back over R’s mouth.

Courfeyrac, having worked out exactly how the table got broken, shakes his head sadly, “I honestly don’t want to know about the first time. I can’t cope with having my illusions shattered.”

“Well I want to know,” says Jehan.

R waggles his hands at him.

Jehan grins happily, “I’ll hold you to it.”

“Shut up R,” says Enjolras, which seems a tad unfair as R hasn’t actually said anything. “Anyway, since R wouldn’t let me move to England, he agreed to move to France. And then he went back on that agreement.”

R yanks free of Enjolras’ hand again, “Christ Enjolras, I didn’t think you were serious.”

“Of course I was serious. I’m always serious.”

“True I guess.” R scrubs his hands through his hair.

Combeferre scowls at them both impartially, “Does that mean you only decided to come to France last weekend?”

“Yeah,” R bobs his head. “It was exhausting getting everything organized and packed up. It’s probably just as well I moved countries because I don’t think any of my friends are talking to me after all the favors I called in. Sorting out the rent on my flat was a nightmare all on its own.”

“That’s crazy,” says Courfeyrac, because it is, “at least Enjolras has found somebody as crazy as he is. It bodes well for the future.”

“It’s not crazy,” say R and Enjolras almost as one person. “It’s a matter of prioritizing,” Enjolras continues.

“I guess it’s not every day you find somebody willing to spend the rest of their lives arguing with you about constitutional monarchy as a system of government.”

“Exactly,” says Enjolras, as if that’s a logical way to make life choices.

Courfeyrac feels too shattered to keep up with the conversation and he waves weakly at Jehan for help. Jehan steps up like a trooper.

“So what is it you do R?”

“I told you, I’m a photographer.”

“You’re an artist,” Enjolras corrects.

“Yeah well nobody seems too keen to pay me for that, so I’m a failed artist and a failing photographer.” Suddenly he grins impishly, “Like I told you, me and Enjolras are going to do a book.”

“No way is Enjolras doing a book on the Chateaux,” says Bahorel. 

R keeps grinning.

Enjolras glares, “Of course I’m not. We’re going to photograph the Banlieues. Do an expose.”

“It’s not an expose,” says R wearily like they’ve discussed this many times. “An expose is prejudging the results. It will be reportage. And for the record I’m only going with you because otherwise you’re going to get yourself knocked on the head.”

“Now who’s prejudging.”

“I’m not prejudging the Banlieues; I’m prejudging people’s reaction to you. I’ve wanted to knock you over the head more or less since I’ve met you. I’m fairly certain it’s not an uncommon reaction.”

“He may have a point,” says Combeferre. “Not everybody can deal with the strength of your convictions Enjolras.” Which is way politer than Courfeyrac would have been.

Enjolras snorts but doesn’t say anything. Courfeyrac feels he should be rewarded for his restraint and decides to move the subject on,

“So that’s what the book will be about. I knew you would never agree to touring the Loire Valley.”

Enjolras ducks his head and stares at his feet.

“Enjolras?”

Enjolras clears his throat, “Moving on, we should get out of here before we get arrested for old time’s take.”

“Oh no, no, no, we are not dropping this. You explain exactly why you’re looking so awkward.”

“I really don’t see that it’s relevant.”

“It’s completely relevant. And if you don’t tell me what’s going on, I’ll only spend the next week figuring it out.”

The threat, and it’s a good one – nobody can niggle like Courfeyrac when he’s onto a secret, makes Enjolras sigh, “Fine. I might as well tell you now and save myself the agony.”

“See,” Courfeyrac crows, “he can too be trained.”

“I can also change my mind.”

“No, no, I’ll be good, I promise.”

“Okay then.” But Enjolras doesn’t say anything else, just blinks mutely at R, who’s grin gets wider as he says,

“So then, I don’t expect it’s a secret among you fine people that Enjolras’ romantic instincts are a bit, uh, stunted.”

They all shuffle their feet because it’s true Enjolras’ social instincts in general are stunted, which is kind of understandable when most people agree with you because you look like an angel and the rest of them can be argued into compliance, but they’re not going to admit it to the interloper.

R shushes Enjolras who’s tried to object, “You don’t get to have an opinion since you thought Girls Gone Wild was a great first date,” he turns to the rest of them, “actual Girls in case you’re confused. There was a wet t-shirt contest. I was confused.”

Courfeyrac cringes because that one was maybe his fault. Enjolras had asked for his advice on where to take R, and thinking Enjolras was trying to improve his relationship with the roommate had suggested checking out Girls Gone Wild because at the time he’d thought the problems might have been caused by some latent homophobia and the possibility of the roommate mistaking Enjolras’ intensity for interest. Next time someone asks him for advice he’s going to make sure he has all the details correct. There may be a form for them to fill in.

“And then you figured an Absinthe Café was the place to take someone who was trying to cut down his drinking.”

Jehan flinches at that one.

“And what you were thinking of when you bought me a modelling shoot I have absolutely no idea,”

That was Courfeyrac again, though in his defense Enjolras asked what he was doing for his current flame, and Helenna had loved the idea.

“But Eponine enjoyed herself so it’s all good. And I’m not sure if I can count the Gallery Exhibition or not, because I had a great time but I can’t see how it’s a date if you buy me a ticket and then don’t turn up yourself.”

That must have been Jehan. Courfeyrac wraps a comforting arm around his shoulders and whispers,

“You thought he was talking about the roommate, right?”

Jehan nods miserably.

“It’s okay. Next time we’ll make them fill in a form.”

Jehan smiles viciously. It’s clearly going to be a very through form.

“So yeah.” R runs his hands through his hair like he has no idea what to do with Enjolras, which to be fair is a pretty common feeling. “Anyway, the point is I already knew he was romantically stunted when he was insisting I move to Paris and telling me all about his fancy apartment like I was a brainless gold-digger, so I did not in fact stab him with the kitchen knife, tempting though it was.”

“Oh Enjolras,” says Courfeyrac, because even brainless gold-diggers like to pretend they’re not brainless gold-diggers (though in his experience, generally not very well).

“But I was concentrating so hard on not stabbing him with kitchen knife, I couldn’t stop him talking. Enjolras talks a lot, have you noticed this?”

They all nod in unison like bobble-head toys.

“And one of the things he offered was a full tour of all the important chateaux so I could photograph them. I honestly have no idea why he thought I’d like that.”

“You love old houses and architecture, and I know you’d adore the art,” says Enjolras plaintively, he’s red and miserably unhappy. Courfeyrac reverses his tentative approval of R. Yes Enjolras is socially stunted, but he’s trying really hard, the hardest he has ever tried. It should be appreciated.

“Oh I’d like that bit,” says R, he reaches out and grabs Enjolras’ wrist, “but I’m distinctly less fond of the bit where you’d be in hock up to your eyeballs to your parents and their friends. You’ve spent your whole life pulling out of their influence and you were just going to give in – for me.”

“Forgive me for thinking you might be important,” Enjolras snaps back. He doesn’t look unhappy anymore, just cross.

Bahorel, not at all subtly, elbows his way between them, “And this would be when the cops showed up?” he asks, clearly intending it as a joke.

But R sighs, “Not quite then, that would have been useful, I might have had some crockery left. They got there maybe half an hour later. By which point I had to move to France or buy new dishes.”

“So obviously France,” says Bahorel like that makes sense.

“Obviously.” 

Then R nods like the whole conversation is concluded and turns aside to gather up his and Enjolras’ bags. R has moved to France with only two duffle bags of stuff.

“Oh my God you were right, he is just as crazy as Enjolras,” says Joly. And then everyone’s talking over in other in a flurry of excited words.

Courfeyrac exchanges glances with Combeferre and they both glide forward, intent on explaining to R exactly how special Enjolras is and exactly how much R will regret it if he continues to be cavalier with Enjolras’ feelings.

R has pressed himself up against Enjolras’ side, and he says quietly, “It’s the most romantic thing anyone could ever offer me, and if you go through with it I will tear up every single one of your law books and turn them into a paper-mache bust of Napoleon.”

“You wouldn’t.” Enjolras is laughing, light and happy in a way Courfeyrac has never heard before. He and Combeferre draw to a halt and just listen, it looks as if R doesn’t need a lecture after all.

“Try me.”

“Oh R, you’re so masterful.” 

Courfeyrac trips into Combeferre as both their brains stall out. Enjolras should never sound so full of breathless flutter.

R goes off into whoops. “Where the hell did that come from?”

Enjolras looks over his shoulder and winks at them. R follows his gaze, “Eavesdroppers huh. So would now be a good time to mention – ”

“Almost certainly not,” says Enjolras and kisses him.

After a moment R breaks the kiss in order to protest, “But surely – ” 

Courfeyrac laughs, “Congratulations Enjolras, you’ve found probably the only other person in the whole world who’d rather argue than have sex.”

R huffs, “You know, we are capable of multi-tasking.”

Courfeyrac thinks about that for half a second, “Ugh, brain bleach, brain bleach.”

“Yes,” cries Enjolras, “finally after years and years, you’re the one who needs the brain bleach,” and he does a cute little fist pump he must have picked up from R.

R laughs so hard he falls over his duffle bags and drags Enjolras down on top of him. Courfeyrac is going to need a whole new dose of brain bleach. His life is so unfair. He’ll start whining about it as soon as he can stop smiling.


End file.
